Progress of Prayer
by ThePotterMalfoyProblem
Summary: Over time, Thorin falls into a pattern of talking with his Maker. Sometimes it is better than others.


I started writing this because of Ed Shereen's I See Fire. The song reminded me of a prayer and I could not help but wonder what it would be like if Thorin were in any way religious. And then this happened. I swear I sometimes write happy things, I do, but angst is more natural for me I suppose.

This work exists in the same general universe as The Absence of the Spoken Word.

I own nothing. Nothing. If I did no one would die.

Mirror post from AO3.

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Nighttime often found Thorin Oakenshield unable to sleep. Worries plagued him, thoughts running rampant through his mind, never calming. He was a leader of a people lost, a king with no kingdom. What right had he to sleep peacefully through the night?

On those nights, the dwarf would get up and walk. When he lived in the Blue Mountains, he would wander the darkened streets of town far into the wee hours of the morning, letting the cool night air wash over him and cleanse his thoughts for the new day. When he started on his journey towards the Shire, he began sitting by the fire long into the night, pipe in hand and eyes on the flames.

Somewhere between the two points in time, he began to talk to Mahal.

It started out small, a casually flung oath as he closed a door on his foot in the dark led to considerings of the Maker as he began his evening trek. Before he knew it, he had started telling Mahal about his day. It was refreshing to be able to vent his worries to someone who would not interrupt or offer unwanted advice. The next day he tried again, and never stopped.

Little things were whispered throughout the day, small updates on the lives of his kin. When Dis's husband got an unfortunate haircut, courtesy of little Kili, Mahal was gleefully informed. When Dis became pregnant with Fili, Mahal was told of that as well.

Nights were reserved for more lengthy matters, pleas and shouting, tales of adventure and accounts of misdeeds. Mahal was told of Kili and Fili's more daring exploits as they grew, with Thorin chuckling under his breath as he related the tales. He was also begged to restore the boys' voices when they refused to talk following their father's death.

And so the talks turned into prayers.

Thorin, as a rule, had never been an overly religious dwarf. He believed in the Maker and the Maker's Halls, but that was about it. No contact, no mess, no divine anything, really. Eru was a distant concept, moreso than Mahal, and unapproachable. But perhaps, just perhaps, the Vala who formed the dwarves would listen to one of his creations; lend a sympathetic ear to his plights.

It was an arrogant thought, but some days it was all that kept Thorin going. Especially after the quest for the Lonely Mountain began.

Oftentimes, when he was on watch, he could be found sitting by the fire with his pipe in hand, staring into the flames, lips moving silently. His facial expressions became less guarded when no one was awake to see them, and all the emotions of the day became clear on his face. The pain and worry and self-doubt would creep across his features, but would soon smooth into relaxation and fondness as he spoke with his Maker.

Little things were still whispered throughout the day. But they were no longer updates on his kin. They had become pleas. Please don't let the company end as troll-food. Please let the company get to safety. Please don't let his nephews do anything that would get them killed. Please, Maker. Please, Mahal. It became a never-ending mantra.

He would have given anything to be able to tell Mahal good things on a regular basis. But it kept on getting worse, and then the Dragon-sickness took him.

He was without prayer for days. The gold-madness consumed him, left no room for anything but anger. Some part of him felt bereft, but did not know of what. His heart yearned for some closeness, but could not remember to whom it should be close.

The first prayer after his sickness ended was one of desperation. He was struggling on the battle-field. The days of madness had taken their toll, his strength was almost spent. His sister-sons, his dear nephews, fought like wildcats beside him. Kudzul and Iglishmek flowed from their mouths and hands as they fought in tandem, protecting each other and their uncle.

Then the final wave of the goblin horde descended upon them, screaming and frothing.

He never saw their end. He only heard the sudden cries cut off before they were through. And he found his voice, cried out to his Maker. "Take me for them, take me for them! They did nothing wrong!" The tears blurred his vision, he did not see the blade swinging for him, and he knew no more.

His eyes flickered open but he knew it would not be for long. Even as he forgave the Burglar, the child of the kindly west, he was pleading for his own forgiveness. How could Mahal accept him into the halls of his ancestors? He had harmed his friends and family, shed blood that need not have been shed. With his last breath he forgave, and begged forgiveness. And his mortal eyes slipped shut for the final time.

And when Thorin opened his eyes, there was his Maker, holding out his hand with a gentle smile. "Come my friend, let us walk and talk as we did of old. There is nothing to forgive."

His Maker led him into shining light and so did Thorin Oakenshield pass into Mahal's court.


End file.
